No Greater Love
by Stoneheart1
Summary: What is love? Following a soul-shattering loss, Harry must resign himself to the inevitable. But SOME people are just too stubborn to take NO for an answer! Despite the title, this is NOT a romance -- however, it IS a love story.
1. A Cry In The Dark

**Author's Note:** Every writer has his favorite story, and this is mine. The idea intrigued me, and it came off better than I hoped it would. No overt romance, but lots of mystery to keep the reader guessing. It's only 10 not-so-long chapters, so pull up a screen and dive in. I hope, when it's over, you'll consider it time well spent. (Or, at the very least, not QUITE the waste of time you thought it might be.)  
  
**Disclaimer:** Every person, place and thing in this story belongs to J.K Rowling. I'm not making any money on it, nor will I ever. Honestly -- who would ever PAY to read THIS?  
  
  


***

  
  
In the stillness of a Hogwarts night, Harry dreamed.  
  
He was in Hogsmeade, standing in front of the Three Broomsticks. Witches and wizards of all variety passed by, as well as magical creatures of decidedly non-human nature. Harry ignored them. He was looking at his watch for the dozenth time.  
  
Where was Hermione?  
  
Harry shrugged impatiently. He knew she would be late; she'd suddenly remembered something and told Harry to go to Hogsmeade without her, promising to catch up. Knowing Hermione as he did, Harry knew that "something" could be as trivial as a shopping list, but just as easily could involve a trip to the library, in which case she could easily have lost track of the time and forgotten their date altogether.  
  
But speculation was pointless. Harry had dutifully ordered drinks, consumed first his and then hers, and now stood vigil on the sidewalk, casting occasional glances toward the path leading to Hogwarts.  
  
Harry sighed, shook his head wearily, and checked his watch yet again --  
  
A scream rent the air. Harry looked up, alert, his hand poised to draw his wand. A gaggle of witches and wizards stood with eyes wide and mouths agape, some pointing with trembling fingers at a spot above and to Harry's right. He turned in the direction indicated -- then he froze.  
  
Igor Karkaroff stood on the roof of the Three Broomsticks. His bearded face was split in a wide, yellow-toothed grin. His eyes were black points of pure malevolence. His wand was pointed at Harry's heart!  
  
Galvanized to action, Harry reached for his wand in a lightning motion,but --  
  
"_Crucio_!"  
  
Harry fell writhing to the sidewalk, screaming in agony. Karkaroff shrieked in exultation, his left arm jerking up in triumph, his fist clenched. The sleeve of his robes slipped down, revealing the black outline of the Dark Mark.  
  
"Death Eater!" someone shouted, and the crowd scattered in terror, fearful lest the Dark Lord appear in the wake of his servant. A handful of braver souls remained, pointing their wands upward.  
  
But Karkaroff was gone.  
  
Harry blinked. The pain was subsiding with the removal of the offending wand. He looked up, saw Karkaroff Apparate onto a nearby roof. He tried to warn the others, but he had no strength to speak.  
  
Karkaroff screamed, "_Avada Kedavra_!" A lance of green fire pierced a wizard between the shoulders. He fell dead not ten feet from Harry.  
  
The remaining witches and wizards whirled, shouting, "_Stupefy_!" or "_Expelliarmus_!" But Karkaroff had Disapparated again.  
  
Harry rose on trembling legs, drawing his wand with fingers still tingling with electricity. But even as he swept the rooftops with blurred vision, he heard Karkaroff cry out again, saw the deadly flash of green light. A witch collapsed onto the cobbled steet.  
  
Turning instinctively in the direction from which the green light had come, Harry raised his wand shakily.  
  
"_Expelliarmus_!"  
  
Harry's wand flew from his hand.  
  
Summoning all the courage remaining within him, Harry lifted his head. The street all around him was now deserted save for the dead. But this he noted only peripherally; his gaze was locked on the figure standing once again on the roof of the Three Broomsticks.  
  
Karkaroff's eyes blazed maniacally; foam flecked his short beard. He pointed his wand directly at Harry.  
  
Now, abrupty, the dream slowed. What transpired in the space of a heartbeat seemed drawn out into an eternity of frozen images, one following another like photos in an album, yet all occurring in the same instant: A peal of insane laughter; a slapping of running feet on cobblestones; a dark form, indistinct, slamming into him, knocking him down; his head striking something hard and sharp, sending waves of hot pain through his spine; a harsh voice screaming; a flash of green light.  
  
There was a rushing in Harry's ears, as of waves on a rocky shore, magnified. His vision was blurred, his glasses fallen from his face. He thought to see two wizards standing on a rooftop, their wands pointing down at something. People were milling about now. Someone was bending over him. He saw mouths moving, as if in speech, but he heard only the rushing in his throbbing brain. Dizzy, he closed his eyes.  
  
Harry opened his eyes after what seemed only a moment. He beheld a tall wizard with flowing white hair and beard. This one was bending down not far from Harry. He saw the man shake his head slowly -- sadly, it seemed. Straining his eyes with an effort, Harry saw what appeared to be a crumpled human form at the man's feet. Even as he watched, the old wizard rose, pointed his wand downward. White ribbons flew from the wand-tip, wrapped themselves around the still figure until it was completely swathed, mummy-fashion.  
  
Harry tried to rise, but a wave of fire pulsed through his head and he sank back down. The white-bearded man was standing over him now, pointing his wand. Was he, Harry, to be mummy-wrapped also? Did that mean he was --  
  
Suddenly the hard surface under Harry became soft, eliciting an involuntary release of breath from him as his discomfort eased. He was floating on a stretcher which now glided past the shops of Hogsmeade. He glimpsed faces peering down at him, their eyes deep-set and sad.  
  
Harry had so many questions, but sorting them in his head made him very tired. He closed his eyes.  
  


*

  
Harry leaped up in bed. He must have cried out, for he was suddenly surrounded by people. He was confused. Where was he? What --  
  
"Lie back, Harry," said a soft voice.  
  
Harry relaxed instinctively. Even in his dazed state, he had no difficulty recognizing the voice of Albus Dumbledore.  
  
"Where..." Harry rasped. "What..."  
  
"You are in the hospital wing at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said.  
  
"How did I -- "  
  
Then, like a flood bursting from a dam, it all came back to him. The dream. Karkaroff. The Killing Curse. The blurred form striking him --  
  
A mournful cry tore agonizingly from Harry's lips. The images in his tortured brain crystalized, playing in his mind's eye in slow motion, frame by frame, sharp and clear. He saw the running form, felt it knock him out of the path of the green beam of death, saw it fall limply in a tangle of black robes and...and...wild, bushy brown hair!  
  
"NO!" Harry screamed, clawing at his sheets. "NOOOOOOO! HERMIONE!!"  



	2. That Which Is Written

**Author's Note:** A tip of my wizard's hat to those who reviewed Chapter 1: Max LoneWolf, Michelle Birkby, Occamy and Kneazle. Now, on to Chapter 2.  
  
  


***

  
  
Harry woke suddenly, fully alert. He recognized the famliar lethargy permeating his limbs, knew that he had been given a Dreamless Sleep Potion -- though how they had forced it down his throat past his screams, he could not recall.  
  
He wanted to scream again, but found he hadn't the strength. He lifted himself up languidly on one elbow.  
  
"Not so fast, Potter!"  
  
Madam Pomfrey appeared suddenly, pushing him down with a firm hand.  
  
"Dumbledore..." he said faintly, pleadingly.  
  
"You are still very weak," Madam Pomfrey said gently.  
  
"No," Harry gasped. "Dumbledore...need...to..."  
  
"I am here, Harry."  
  
Harry looked up, saw the blurred face of Dumbledore. Even without his glasses, Harry saw the sadness on the man's face. His moustaches drooped despondently. The familiar twinkle in his eyes was nowhere to be seen. Dumbledore sat down and placed a hand on Harry's arm.  
  
"Not a dream," Harry said, his eyes filling with tears. "Not..."  
  
Dumbledore lowered his head.  
  
"There is no way I can say this," he said heavily, "that will make the pain of it any less. Miss Granger interposed herself between you and the Killing Curse. She is dead."  
  
Harry could not speak. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling hot tears burn his cheeks. How long he lay thus, he did not now. At length he wiped his eyes, reached from force of habit for his glasses. They were on the bedside table.  
  
He now saw clearly the face of Dumbledore, who seemed not to have moved, having apparently sat patiently waiting for Harry's spasm of grief to abate.  
  
"Why?" It was the only thing Harry could think to say.  
  
"Karkaroff told us everything," Dumbledore said, "under the impetus of Veritaserum.  
  
"When Voldemort returned to full strength two years ago, Karkaroff knew that the first to feel his wrath would be those Death Eaters who betrayed him at his first falling. You will recall, from what you experienced in the pensieve in my office, that Karkaroff bought his freedom from Azkaban in exchange for other, loyal Death Eaters. This Voldemort would never forgive. Karkaroff reasoned, therefore, that what had worked for him once might serve him again. He would attempt to buy his life from Voldemort by offering another life -- one of greater value-- in exhange."  
  
"Mine," Harry said dully. "My life in exchange for Voldemort's mercy."  
  
"Just so," Dumbledore nodded.  
  
"Where is he now?"  
  
"He was stupefied by two wizards who Apparated behind him even as he hurled the Killing Curse at you," Dumbledore said. "He is now in Azkaban, awaiting the dementor's kiss."  
  
Harry fell silent again. He seemed to be thinking deeply. Dumbledore sat quietly in his chair, waiting. Harry lay back on his pillow, his eyes staring up into nothingness.  
  
"It's not enough," Harry said harshly, as if to the world and not merely to Dumbledore. "My parents. Sirius. Cedric. And now..." Harry's throat caught dryly. "It's not enough..."  
  
After another pregnant silence, Harry turned to face Dumbledore, his eyes green fire.  
  
"I've never asked for anything before, Professor. I've done all that was asked of me, and more -- and I've asked for nothing in return! But the scales have tipped too far. It's past time a balance was struck. The price is too high this time. I want...I want...compensation.  
  
"I'm calling in my debt, Professor. I...I want...a Time-Turner."  
  
Unable to withstand Harry's withering gaze, Dumbledore closed his eyes, his head declining slightly. His face seemed strained, as if he were bearing a terrible pain inside.  
  
"Harry," he said at last, opening his eyes, which were brimming with pity, "what you ask is impossible."  
  
"It's _not_ impossible!" Harry said bitterly. "We saved Buckbeak --Hermione and I -- I can go back..."  
  
But Dumbledore was shaking his head sadly.  
  
"The circumstances were different -- "  
  
"Damned right they were different!" Harry barked. "That was a sodding hippogriff -- an animal! This is a human being we're talking about! Hermione! Hermione can't...die...she..."  
  
Harry's voice quivered, his body shaking.  
  
"She did die," Dumbledore said with an authority mingled with sorrow. "She was seen to die by a dozen witnesses."  
  
"What does -- " Harry began shortly, but Dumbledore stopped him.  
  
"Harry," Dumbledore said slowly, "Buckbeak did _not_ die. But it was not necessarily your actions which brought this to pass."  
  
Harry looked at Dumbledore as if the old wizard were mad.  
  
"Time," Dumbledore said carefully, "is a very complex phenomenon, far too much for either science or magic to fathom. But this we know, that all actions have consequences. All that we are today is a direct result of what has gone before. To try to re-write what has already transpired is to tamper with the very balance of the universe itself.  
  
"I repeat, Harry, Buckbeak did not die. He never _did_ die. I know this, because I was at Hagrid's cabin at the time of the supposed execution. At that time, I made the decision to save Buckbeak by employing you and Miss Granger, in such fashion as you no doubt remember well. Your actions did not change what was -- rather, you merely completed a circle which began when first the thought entered my mind. From that moment of inception, the die was cast. Buckbeak lived. Rather than changing events, you and Miss Granger merely brought them to fulfillment.  
  
"If you find this difficult to grasp, Harry, you are not alone. Time travel is fraught with paradoxes, of which this is but one; it is for this reason, and many others besides, that use of the Time-Turner is strictly circumscribed.  
  
"If this were not enough in itself." Dumbledore added, "there is also the matter of time as distance. Three years ago, you and Miss Granger traveled back only three hours to save Buckbeak. But -- it is now _two days_ since Miss Granger's tragic death."  
  
Harry's face was a mask of shock and disbelief. Two _days_? He had been unconscious for --  
  
"Though it may not always seem so," Dumbledore said sagely, "we live in an ordered universe. Two days ago, a death was ordered. That death cannot be expunged. It must stand."  
  
Harry was now sobbing softly.  
  
"I -- I can't go on -- without her -- I -- loved her..."  
  
"And she loved you," Dumbledore said gently. "One far wiser than I said, 'There is no greater love than this, than a man give up his life for another.'"  
  
"Yes!" Harry cried out. "A man! ME! I should be dead! Not Hermione!"  
  
"Love and sacrifice are not exclusive to gender, Harry," Dumbledore said, his eyes moist behind his half-moon spectacles. "Your mother is everlasting proof of that."  
  
After a solemn silence, Harry asked breathlessly, "Have -- have her parents been..."  
  
"Alas," Dumbledore sighed, "the Grangers are presently touring the continent -- a second honeymoon, I believe -- we have not yet found them to bring them the news.  
  
"In any case, I should prefer to wait until their return. They might be experiencing their last moments of happiness for a very long time, I fear."  
  
Harry closed his eyes as tears came freely again. Patting Harry's arm one last time, Dumbledore rose without a word and left the infirmary, closing the door behind him.  
  
On the other side of the room, another door stood half-open; then it, too, closed.  
  


***

  
  
**Author's Note:** Who is standing behind the door? The answer will be revealed in Chapter 3. I promise to return if you do. 


	3. In An Alley Met

**Author's Note:** Thanks to 2-time reviewers Max LoneWolf and Occamy, and first-timers Amerz and sew2100. And don't let the initial gloom get you down. Not unlike John Cleese in Monty Python and the Holy Grail ("She turned me into a newt!"), it "gets better." I promise.  
  
  


***

  
  
The bell tinkled musically at the front door. Like a Jack-in-the-box, Fred Weasley's face popped up from behind the counter, the corners of a solicitous grin nearly touching his ears.  
  
"Welcome to Weasley's -- oh, hi, Ron --  
  
"Ron?"  
  
Ron quickly closed the door, shutting out the noises of Diagon Alley.  
  
"What are you doing here?" Fred said suspiciously. "This is a school day. How did -- "  
  
"We need to talk," Ron said without preamble, his voice low, his bearing solemn. "I waited until the shop was empty. It's important."  
  
Fred studied his brother's face carefully, then drew his wand and pointed it at the door. The lock clicked, and an _Out To Lunch_ sign appeared in the window.  
  
Fred led Ron into the back room, where they found George sitting on a box with an inventory parchment across his knees and a quill in his hand. The twin looked up, surprise spreading across his broad face. He watched wordlessly as Ron closed the door, shutting out the light by which George had been working. Fred produced candles with his wand and lighted them.  
  
"What's going on?" George asked Fred, setting aside parchment and quill. Fred's only answer was a shrug and a nod toward Ron.  
  
Ron stood with his back against the door, the gesture seeming to convey weariness -- of spirit more than of body, the twins thought.  
  
"What I'm going to tell you can't leave this room," Ron said flatly. "No one can know, even Mum and Dad. Swear. I mean it! Swear!"  
  
"We promise," Fred said as George nodded.  
  
Ron began to pace the small storeroom. When he spoke, his eyes darted about restlessly, either unwilling or unable to meet his brothers'.  
  
"Hermione was Cursed in Hogsmeade two days ago. Her parents are abroad and haven't been told, so no one can know yet."  
  
"Is she alright?" George asked.  
  
Ron halted his pacing, setting his face.  
  
"For now," he lied. "But I can help her."  
  
"You?" said Fred in amazement. "What can _you_ do that Dumbledore and his lot can't?"  
  
"Something they _won't_ do," Ron said. "Something illegal. Naturally, I thought of you two straight off. And, truthfully, I can't do it without your help."  
  
George looked up at Fred. "I dunno..."  
  
Ron rounded on them, his eyes blue flame.  
  
"Look, I'm not fooling around! Hermione's life is at stake! You know how Harry feels about her! ("Not to say you, mate," Fred and George thought together.) He's in more pain now than ever before in his life -- and given what he's been through already, that's saying something! And it'll be a hundred times worse if Hermione dies! I need to do this! He's my best friend -- he -- he's as much a brother to me as you are! So I'm asking you -- I'm _begging_ you -- between brothers -- help _me_ -- to help _him_!"  
  
The twins stared at each other, then at Ron.  
  
"This is dangerous, then?" George said.  
  
"Yes," Ron said plainly. "But would either of you do less if it were for me? Or for Ginny?"  
  
The twins exchanged the briefest of glances before turning back to Ron.  
  
"What do you need?" Fred said an instant before George.  
  
"Two things," Ron said. He pulled some rolled parchment from his robes. "First, this list of potion ingredients." He handed the crackling parchment to Fred, who unrolled it as George craned his neck upwards. "Some of the ingredients can't be sold to underage wizards," Ron explained.  
  
The twins scanned the list, but to little benefit; neither had excelled in Potions at school.  
  
"What does this potion do?" asked Fred.  
  
"It doesn't kill," Ron said evasively, hoping this would suffice. "And the potion itself isn't illegal."  
  
"But the other thing..."  
  
Ron now had the twins' full attention. He drew a small piece of parchment from his robes and held it almost carelessly between thumb and forefinger.  
  
"What I need," he said in a somewhat fumbling tone, "is someone who deals in controlled and prohibited artifacts. I figured you must know someone..."  
  
The twins exchanged a thoughtful look, then turned to Ron and nodded.  
  
Ron proffered the parchment, which George took. His eyes widened as he saw that it was folded in half and sealed with wax.  
  
"Better you don't know," Ron smiled wanly. "Less to deny later, if it comes to that.  
  
"I -- I need it as soon as possible -- tomorrow, if you can manage it.  
  
"And, well -- it'll probably be expensive. Do you have any gold on hand?"  
  
"How much?" the twins said almost with one voice.  
  
"I really don't know," Ron said almost guiltily. "I never bought one before."  
  
He ran his hand over his face.  
  
"Look, I know I'm asking a lot -- working blind, spending your own gold -- risking bloody Azkaban for all I know -- "  
  
"It's for Harry," George declared, slipping the folded parchment into his robes. "We wouldn't have this shop if not for him."  
  
Ron gave George a puzzled look.  
  
"Never mind," George smiled. "We have our secrets, too. Consider it done."  
  
"Tomorrow?" Ron said hopefully.  
  
"Guarantee it," George said.  
  
He stood up, turning to Fred.  
  
"Right, you fetch that lot from the Potions Shop. I'll owl our friend..." He patted the pocket containng the folded parchment.  
  
"Owl?" Ron said in alarm. "You're not Apparating -- ?"  
  
Fred and George both laughed.  
  
"And a fine dealer in contraband he'd be," George said, "if anyone could Apparate right to his doorstep! The Ministry'd love that, wouldn't they? No worries, Ron. Once the owl reaches him, he'll be on _our_ doorstep quicker than you can say, 'Ton-Tongue Toffee'!  
  
"Which reminds me, Fred. Orders up twelve per cent last month."  
  
"Smashing!" Fred grinned.  
  
"L-look," Ron stammered, "I -- I c-can't thank you -- "  
  
"Thank us later," Fred said, checking his watch in the flickering candlelight. "You'd best be off, then."  
  
"You came by Floo powder?" George said.  
  
"Used the fire at the Three Broomsticks," Ron said.  
  
Fred was tugging his chin in thought.  
  
"Okay, here it is: Quick as we get the goods, we'll Apparate to Hogsmeade and owl you. Reckon if you sneaked out today, you can do the same tomorrow with no trouble. We'll meet...let's see, where to meet? The caves outside of town. Sound good?"  
  
"Yes," Ron said faintly. "Fine."  
  
The brothers exchanged a quick handshake; then, with a tinkle of the doorbell, Ron was gone.  



	4. Hogsmeade Rendezvous

**Author's Note:** Thanks to returning reviewers sew2100, Max LoneWolf, Occamy and Amerz, and to newly-arrived sbys.  
  
  


***

  
  
Ron sleepwalked through the next day. Classes had been canceled for the second day (tentatively, the entire week was likely to be written off), as most students were too deep in grief to concentrate on studies.  
  
Ron had not seen many of his friends in days. Parvati and Lavender had not left their dorm, nor touched the food brought them by the house-elves at Dumbledore's bidding. Throughout the school, the students and teachers all seemed to be grieving in their own, private way.  
  
There were, however, notable exceptions. The Slytherins all but celebrated the "Mudblood's" death as a second Christmas, incited by the bilious standard of Draco Malfoy. Their enthusiasm diminished quickly when a group of Gryffindors, led by no less a personage than Neville Longbottom, hurled so many Curses and hexes at Malfoy that his father took him out of school in fear for his life.  
  
Ron was sitting at an otherwise deserted table in the Dining Hall, his plate of bangers scarcely touched, when an owl swept down and landed at his elbow. He read the note impassively for benefit of any onlookers, then unobtrusively incinerated it with his wand and scattered the ashes under the table. He stood up unhurriedly and exited the sepulchral Hall, his mind awash with an incongruous mixture of trepidation and resolve.  
  
'No turning back now,' he thought as he made his way up to Gryffindor Tower. He passed through the half-filled common room, chilled by the grim silence and the despair weighing the young faces like a pall. He ascended to his dorm, carefully checked each bed for habitation. Satisfied that he was alone, he drew a folded bundle from under his pillow, all the while watching the doorway. Moving quickly, he shook out the Invisibility Cloak and covered himself.  
  
Breathing easier now, Ron caught up his school bag and tucked it under his arm. He hastened down the stairs, barely dodging a morose Dean Thomas who was moving as in a fog. Summoning a patience not his by nature, Ron stood by the portrait hole and waited until it opened to admit a student. He slipped out soundlessly and exited the castle without incident.  
  
Ron resisted the urge to run to Hogsmeade at full gallop, fearing that the Cloak would billow and reveal some part of him. But his long legs ate up the distance quickly, and soon he was approaching the caves where he, Harry and Hermione had visited the fugitive Sirius during fourth year. Ron saw no one -- but, of course, Fred and George would not be lurking about suspiciously in full view, would they? There being nothing else for it, Ron removed the Invisibility Cloak and strode toward the caves with the forced ease of one taking a simple constitutional.  
  
"Ron!" a familiar voice hissed. "Over here!"   
  
Ron sighed with relief as he saw Fred and George standing at the entrance of a small cave that was partly hidden by brush and scrub. They exchanged a brief greeting, whereupon Fred handed Ron a bag that bore the mark of the Potions Shop in Diagon Alley. Ron nodded his thanks to Fred, then turned to George.  
  
George lifted his hand, revealing a small box tied with string.  
  
"I didn't open it," George said as Ron took the box and stared at it as if he expected it to explode in his hand. "I was told to tell you it's very second-hand. Our 'friend' stakes his reputation that it'll work, but it might have only three or four uses left. He said you'd understand."  
  
Ron nodded.  
  
"How much?" he asked hesitantly.  
  
"A bit," George chuckled. "But I talked him down. Gave him a deal on some merchandise. Did you know that Canary Creams are a Controlled Substance in the Republic of Ireland? Makes a bloke proud, doesn't it, Fred?"  
  
Ron held the small package to his bosom with something akin to veneration.  
  
"Thanks," he said almost breathlessly.  
  
"You'll have to tell us what it's all about sometime, eh?" said Fred. "Bet it's quite a story."  
  
His mouth was smiling, as was George's; but their eyes looked at Ron as if they thought they might never see their brother again.  



	5. One Good Turn

**Author's Note:** Grateful thanks to those who reviewed Chapter 4: Ashley Potter, sew2100, Occamy, kateydidnt, Michelle Birkby and sbys.  
  
And to anyone who hasn't already figured out what is in the mysterious package, that question is about to be answered. This is your last chance! Prod your brains one last time, then read on. (And no peeking!)  
  
  


***

  
  
Upon leaving Hogsmeade, Ron did not go back to Gryffindor Tower. Instead he made directly for the Whomping Willow. He dodged indifferently between the branches, which, being unaware of his presence (he was still wearing the Invisibility Cloak), remained quiescent. Not until he was safely through the hidden passage did he remove the Cloak and fling it carelessly over his shoulder.  
  
The tunnel seemed more cramped than he remembered. In fact, Ron was a good sight taller now than when last he had trod this passageway nearly three years ago. Lighting his wand, he traversed the tunnel swiftly until he arrived at his destination.  
  
The Shrieking Shack.  
  
Mounting to the second floor, he entered a familiar room. His gaze fell on a great four-poster bed, the very one upon which he had lain with a broken leg in that far-away time. A small cauldron sat on the bed now, placed there by Ron himself the night before. He dropped the bag of potion ingredients into it, dumping his school bag alongside. He then turned his attention to the small, mysterious package.  
  
He opened it slowly, a touch of fear racing along his spine. With shaking hands he drew out a small hourglass, darkly tarnished, scratched and dented.  
  
A pained smile crossed his lips. Harry and Hermione had, of course, told him all about their adventure with her Time-Turner on that fateful night, swearing him to a secrecy he had kept faithfully even unto this moment. It seemed fitting that he should stand here now, almost three years to the day, to embark upon a path so like, yet so unlike, the one his friends had trod.  
  
Ron felt his resolve weakening. He tilted his head back, a mournful sigh escaping his lips. How grand Harry and Hermione had made it sound then -- going back in time, changing what _was_ into what would _never be_. And how he, Ron, had boasted what great things he could have done were he given such a chance!  
  
But now, to hold an Honest-to-Merlin Time-Turner in his hand -- and more, to actually contemplate _using_ it --  
  
No. Not contemplate. The time for self-doubt was past. It was time to _act_! Slowly, almost reverently, he gathered up the long chain, balled it up in his fist.  
  
He had gone over his plan many times, fine-tuning every detail hour by hour through a sleepless night and into the following day. It was now Tuesday evening. Hermione had been killed on Saturday afternoon, more than three days ago. But Ron needed more than those three days to undo what had happened. The potion required a full three _weeks_ to prepare -- and he dared not muck it up, for he knew he would get no second chance.  
  
Expelling a deep sigh, Ron relaxed his tense shoulders. He loosened his vice-like fingers and shook out the fine chain. He raised the hourglass, taking great care not to invert it, and squinted in the nebulous half-light. Clucking his tongue, he produced some candles with his wand, trusting that the boarded-up windows would protect him from the prying eyes of Hogsmeade.  
  
On the base of the hourglass was a dial inscribed with tiny markings. Close scrutiny revealed each mark to be distinct.  
  
The first mark, to which the glass was now set, was a tiny hourglass. In this setting, one flip of the Time-Turner would transport the bearer one hour into the past.  
  
The second mark was a tiny circle with rays emanating from it: a sun. This clearly represented one day.  
  
The third mark was a tiny crescent moon.  
  
One month!  
  
Fingers somewhat a-tremble, Ron set the dial to this mark, which proved difficult due to the corrosion of who knew how many years. Second hand, George had said? 'No joke there,' Ron thought as the dial finally clicked into place.  
  
Ron held the now-primed artifact in his palm and stared at it blankly. What thoughts should he be thinking at a time like this? _Were_ there any rational thoughts that applied to something so insane as that which Ron was about to undertake?  
  
Ron did the only thing he could think to do. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. This done, he mechanically looped the chain about his neck.  
  
Walking to the bed, he slung his book bag over his shoulder, stuffing the Invisibiity Cloak in before closing the flap. He picked up the cauldron full of ingredients and tucked it under his arm.  
  
And swiftly, before his resolution could falter, he turned the hourglass over!  
  
The room blurred, vanished. He felt like a leaf in a storm, as if he were flying without benefit of a broomstick. A wave of dizziness passed over him.  
  
The next thing he knew he was lying on his back. Everything around him was murky. He tried several times to focus his eyes, but failed. He let his eyelids fall. His eyes having deserted him, he turned to his other senses. It was only then that he realized what should have been apparent from the first. The surface upon which he lay was _not_ the hard floor of the Shrieking Shack. It was soft, cool. Damp. Grass?  
  
Ron sat bolt upright, shaking off the dizziness this inspired. Throwing his eyes open, Ron saw the broad expanse of the Hogwarts grounds, now dulled by the blanket of night.  
  
Thank Merlin for the darkness! And Merlin _curse_ him for a _fool_!  
  
He had forgotten a crucial detail of Hermione's account of her escapade with Harry. Traveling in _time_ also meant traveling in _space_! Hermione explained that the seemingly stationary Earth was, in fact, spinning on its axis at roughly one thousand miles an hour. Nominally, to go back in time an hour was to shift one's position by a thousand miles. Magic compensated for this scientific bugbear, but not to an absolute degree. When Harry and Hermione had gone back three hours, they had shifted not three thousand miles, but merely the distance between the hospital wing and the entrance hall of the castle.  
  
Ron placed a hand to his forehead, encountering cold sweat. He had gone back in time twenty-eight days! Where in Merlin's name _was_ he?  
  
It was with tremendous relief that, with the adjusting of his eyes to the darkness, Ron began to make out familiar shapes. He jumped noticably when he saw that the Forbidden Forest lay less than ten feet to his left. What if he had materialized _inside_ the Forest? Ron suddenly remembered Aragog and his legion of children, and the thought chilled him to the bone despite the warmth of the June night.  
  
His head clear now, Ron scrambled up, casting about for his cauldron and school bag. They lay only a few feet away, and he fairly leaped upon them to check for damage. He breathed an audible sigh to find his school bag still secure and the bag of potion ingredients undamaged, the string about its neck lashed fast.  
  
Somewhere nearby a dog barked. Fang! Hagrid's cabin was somewhere nearby, then. It was with genuine relief that he spied the candlelit rectangle of Hagrid's window. His position now certain, Ron pulled out the Invisibility Cloak and dived under it gratefully. Tucking his school bag under one arm and the cauldron under the other, Ron loped as quickly as he dared toward the Whomping Willow, the sound of Fang's barking fading until only the delicate noises of the Scottish night remained.  
  
And the hammering of his heart against his ribs.  
  


***

  
  
**Author's Note:** Okay, that's ONE mystery solved. The next question is: What potion is Ron brewing? You have until next post to think about it. (And no Time-Turners allowed!) 


	6. Double, Double, Toil and Trouble

**Author's Note:** A tip of the old Sorting Hat to Chapter 5 reviewers kateydidnt, sew2100 and Occamy. Ron's big moment is at hand, so let us press on without further ado.  
  


***

  
Upon his return to the Shrieking Shack, the first thing Ron did was have a lie-down on the dusty four-poster bed. The dizziness born of his journey had passed; now his mind was spinning purely from wonder.  
  
This was not a dream, not some mad delusion (well, not a delusion at any rate; any inherent madness was a matter for conjecture).  
  
He had gone back in time! He had confirmed this on his trek back to the Whomping Willow by the simple expedient of looking up at the night sky. Ron had not been the best student in Astronomy, but even he knew how to place simple and familiar constellations. One of his favorite pastimes as a boy had been to mark the passage of the Big Dipper across the sky. On any given night, he knew precisely where to find it. Tonight, when he looked up at the spot where he had seen it last night, it was not there. He found it, of course -- exactly where it had been one month ago!  
  
Or, to be more precise, twenty-eight days. One moon-cycle.  
  
Ron did some mental math as he stared up at the ceiling through the tattered rent in the sagging bed-canopy. It was now twenty-five days, less an odd number of hours, until Hermione's fateful trek to Hogsmeade. He would need at least twenty-one days to prepare the potion to specifications. Best not to hurry, he thought. Take an extra day or two, just to be sure. And, of course, he would need to test it before going forward with his plan proper.  
  
His mind now set on his task, Ron rose from the creaking bed and swung his oversized feet down to the floor beside his school bag and cauldron. The latter he took up and set upon the bed. He extracted the potions bag and dumped its contents onto the bedspread. As expected, each ingredient was packaged in a separate pouch. He inventoried each in turn, checking the list retrieved from his school bag. His chore was delayed somewhat by his tendency to stare at each listing for long moments on end. Hermione's precise handwriting was still quite legible after three years and repeated folding and re-folding.  
  
He was further delayed by repeated self-recriminations at neglecting so vital a step until now. Why had he not checked the ingredients immediately? Suppose something were missing or not to specifications? 'Typical,' Ron thought scathingly. 'Stupit git! If Hermione were here, she'd have plenty to say, and don't you think she wouldn't!'  
  
Yes...if Hermione were here...  
  
Blimey, Ron thought with a lump in his throat, what he wouldn't give to be on the receiving end of one of her tirades right now. He screwed up his face, fighting tears.  
  
There was no time for this rot! Besides, if all went as planned, Hermione _would_ be here to sort him out -- though, of course, _he_ would not be here to suffer it, would he?  
  
Well, as Ron himself had said at the end of first year, you couldn't have everything in life, could you?  
  
When all the ingredients had (praise Merlin) been accounted for, Ron slipped out and fetched water from the lake. He now had a decision to make. Where to place the cauldron? Or, more precisely, how?  
  
Ron stared disapprovingly at the antique night table next to the bed. The slightest pressure from his hand sent it to swaying like Hagrid drunk on mead. He considered transfiguring it into something sturdier, but his marks in Transfiguration had never been the best. Now Charms, on the other hand...  
  
His decision made, Ron held the water-filled cauldron over the table and cast a Hovering Charm upon it. The cauldron hung some six inches above the table top, and when Ron nudged it with his hand, it did not move. Nodding his approval, he then conjured one of Hermione's patented bluebell flames beneath the cauldron. He slid his fingers between the flames and the table top. The wood remained cool. Ron grinned broadly as he retrieved the list and set about adding the ingredients.  
  
Ron fulfilled every step with precision, checking and re-checking, measuring everything with scale or phial to the finest degree. A bitter smile slowly formed on his otherwise stony features.  
  
'Too bad Snape can't see me,' he thought tartly. 'I'd get full marks.'  
  
He added the lacewing flies with a slight grimace. They were the joker in the deck, as it were, needing to stew for twenty-one days. If not for this one ingredient, his task might have been facilitated by weeks. But there was nothing for it. He dropped them in resignedly, one by one, stirring them with his wand as he went.  
  
And, he thought with a certain Socratic insight, was a month alone in the Shrieking Shack really so high a price to pay for Hermione's life? He'd gladly have given ten years!  
  
Complete isolation was an absolute necessity, of course. He was, after all, breaking some kind of cosmic law by being in two places at once. Somwhere out there, another Ron Weasley was going through the familar paces of life at Hogwarts. Were the two of them to meet, even for a moment, the repercussions might be inestimable (even if he understood them, which he didn't). All he really knew was what Hermione had told him back then. And one single phrase kept reverberating in his brain, the words of Albus Dumbledore as repeated by Hermione: YOU -- MUST --NOT -- BE -- SEEN!  
  


*

  
The first night set the pattern for those to follow. Sometime after midnight he slunk invisibly into the castle, thence to the kitchens. He'd had the foresight to include the Marauders' Map when packing his duffel; it would prove invaluable in the coming weeks. enabling him to avoid Filch (and Mrs. Norris) and anyone else who might be about.  
  
As always, the house-elves proved only too happy to ply him with food and drink. Nevertheless, he always took enough so that he needed visit them no more than two or three times a week; surely even house-elves must get suspicious if he came every night.  
  
Every few days he dared a late-night bath in the lake, narrowly avoiding the giant squid on more than one occasion.  
  
Boredom was his greatest adversary. He'd considered bringing some books along, but he'd never been much of a reader. His favorite was Flying With The Cannons, but he had read it so often that he could quote it verbatim.  
  
Sometimes, spurred by restlessness, he would go to Hogsmeade and wander about. More than once he found himself standing on the very spot where "it" had happened, and it chilled his blood even as it steeled his resolve.  
  
On some of these trips he would find a discarded copy of The Daily Prophet or Witch Weekly, and he would repair to the Shrieking Shack and read it from first page to last. His favorites were, respectively, the comic page and the gossip section. More than once he feared his laughter could be heard clear to Hogwarts castle.  
  
He spent many a glorious, sunny day sitting at the base of the Whomping Willow, watching people come and go, including himself (weird), Harry, and -- heartbreakingly -- Hermione. At such times he ached in his soul to throw off the Cloak and go join his friends, to laugh with them and tell them how much he loved them. Sometimes he'd hear Hermione raising her voice either to him or to Harry, and the memory of the argument brought tears to his eyes. Did he and Hermione really fight over such petty, trivial things? How he longed to rush up to her in those moments and hug her and apologize for all the stupid things he'd said and done.  
  
More than once he seriously considered catching Harry and Hermione alone, stunning them, and hiding them in the Shrieking Shack until the fateful day was past.  
  
But that would accomplish nothing in the long run. Karkaroff would still be out there somewhere, waiting for his chance to strike. How long could Ron keep his friends hidden before their eventual discovery? And to what end? So long as Karkaroff remained a threat, both Harry and Hermione would be in danger. And if Karkaroff struck at a time and place unknown, who could prevent him from killing either or both of them in the end?  
  
No, this was the only way to be sure. Ron knew exactly where and when Karkaroff would strike. When it was over, Karkaroff would be in Azkaban, a danger no no one.  
  
There was, of course, a price to be paid. Dumbledore had been clear in his assertion that the cosmic balance demanded a death. Therefore, a death it would have.  
  


*

  
Ron spent much of his time sleeping, that being the best way to burn off the long, tedious hours ahead of him. The potion needed little tending now as it simmered quietly atop the magical blue flames. Ron smiled to think of all the times he'd had to get up early, of his mother screaming at him as he begged for just ten more minutes in bed. He never imagined how sick he would become of being able to sleep for as long as he wanted; three weeks of doing little else soon set him to rights.  
  
About a week into his vigil, the pattern of sunny weather was broken by a rainstorm. Ron made good use of this inclemency to see to a very important part of his plan. Assured that the storm would mask his movements, Ron selected a window on a neutral side of the house, facing away from both Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. He extracted the nails holding the boards in place with a narrowly focussed Summoning Charm. He replaced the boards with a simple Adhesion Charm. At the proper time, he could dispense with the barricade with a simple wave of his wand. It was imperative that he have an immediate egress when the moment to act arrived. A single minute's delay might undo a month's labor.  
  
Marking the passing days proved to be a problem at first. With all he'd remembered to bring, he'd forgotten one of the simplest and most basic: a calendar. Merlin, but Hermione would have a field day over that one! He marked off the days by tracing lines in a dusty corner of the bedroom. Not daring to sneak all the way up to his dorm in Gryffindor Tower just to fetch his bedside calendar, he instead began to note the passing of the students as they went to and from their classes. He knew, for example, which days the Gryffindors had Care of Magical Creatures, and their trek to Hagrid's cabin on those days was as certain and reassuring as the tolling of Big Ben.  
  
In the days immediately preceding his target date, Ron put the lash to himself. He established a regular sleeping pattern until his biological clock woke him at roughly the same time every morning. He stabilized his diet, substituting healthy foods for pumpkin pasties and chocolate frogs. He did push-ups and stretching exercises, while simultaneously sharpening his wits by playing games of wizard chess in his mind. The most important moment in his life was at hand, and he needed to be at his peak when H-Hour arrived.  
  
On the appointed day, Ron alternately checked his watch and the Marauders' Map every five minutes. Scrutinizing the Map, he watched the dots labelled "Harry Potter" and "Hermione Granger" moving across the parchment. Neither would make a move without Ron knowing of it.  
  
The potion was long since finished. Trusting nothing to chance, he'd poured a gobletful and tested it with the aid of Hermione's hairbrush, which he'd nicked from her bedside table the same night he transported the cauldron to the Shack. The potion had worked to perfection.  
  
Early afternoon found Ron in the shade of a tree on the outskirts of the Hogwarts grounds. The path to Hogsmeade lay mere yards away. Harry had walked past a short while agone, grumbling something unintelligible about girls in general and Hermione in particular. Ron studied the Marauders' Map, parting the Invisibility Cloak just a touch to let in a few rays of the brilliantly shining sun. It was a perfect day, in fact, making the tragedy of it the more ironic.  
  
At last Ron spied Hermione's dot, moving across the parchment in his direction. There was no one else nearby. Satisfied, Ron folded the Map and tucked it into his robes. He waited with quiet anxiety, tugging nervously at the Cloak to assure than no smallest part of him was visible. He dared only a tiny slit through which one eye was trained on the path.  
  
Abruptly a figure appeared from behind an obscuring bush, walking with light step, brown hair dancing in the wind.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Ron threw off the Cloak, stuffed it clumsily into his robes, and stepped into view.  
  
"Hermione!" he called in a low voice, just in case someone were close enough to hear. "Hermione! Over here!"  
  
Hermione stopped and turned her head.  
  
"Ron?" she said in surprise. "What are you doing here? I thought I left you in the common room?"  
  
"I sneaked out," Ron said, looking this way and that. "I need to talk to you. It's important."  
  
"But how did you get here ahead of me?" Hermione pressed, something not seeming right to her.  
  
"I ran," Ron said with feigned calm, his eyes still nervous. "Left the path, took a short cut -- look, never mind that -- "  
  
"Ron, Harry's waiting for me," Hermione said with a touch of impatience, checking her watch for emphasis. "I've already kept him waiting -- "  
  
"I said, it's important!" Ron hissed. ('Bloody Hell, woman! I'm trying to save your bloody life!') "Over here, behind this tree!"  
  
Shaking her head with an annoyed tutting sound escaping her lips, Hermione left the path and approached the tree.  
  
"Okay, Ron, now what's -- "  
  
Ron pointed his wand in a lightning motion and said, "Stupefy!"  
  
Hermione's eyes rolled back in her head. Ron lunged and caught her as she fell, dropping his wand in his haste. It spat red sparks momentarily as the tip struck the ground. He tucked it hurriedly into his robes as he dragged Hermione one-handed behind the tree. He then jerked out the Invisibility Cloak and flung it over his shoulders, kneeling down thereafter and covering as much of Hermione as possible with the edge.  
  
He was now faced with the dilemma of how to transport an unconscious Hermione to the Whomping Willow. Tall as he was, it was difficult to cover himself with the Cloak, much less someone else -- and one who needed to be hauled bodily, at that. The fireman's carry was out of the question; the Cloak would not even touch the ground. The same held for carrying her in his arms. Ron sighed. He would have to drag her all the way.  
  
Working quicky, Ron whipped off the Cloak and threw it over Hermione. Short as she was, much loose fabric remained. Leaning down, Ron tugged the edge of the Cloak over his head and shoulders. He caught Hermione under the arms and proceeded to drag her. As most of Ron's back was exposed, he was forced to essay a sort of backward frog-squat, always keeping the facing side of the Cloak toward Hogwarts. Ron would have given a year's pocket money to be able to conjure a floating stretcher right now. But he'd need a free and exposed wand to direct it. He sighed despondently again between grunts and muttered profanities.  
  
When at last they reached the edge of the tree, Ron collapsed, panting. Wrapping the Cloak around him, he scurried to the base of the tree and touched the knot that froze the branches into immobility. It was a simple matter then to carry Hermione to the tree and slip her down the entrance feet-first. Before following her down, Ron drew a piece of folded parchment from his robes and smoothed it out. This he attached to the trunk of the tree using an Adhesion Charm. He added a Concealment Charm that would cause the parchment to take on the same appearance as the tree bark. This he timed to a limit of one hour. If all went well, the note would reappear just about the time when the news from Hogsmeade was reaching Hogwarts.  
  
Back in the passage, Ron conjured a stretcher and lay Hermione upon it gently. His lighted wand before him, he began the journey back to the Shrieking Shack.  
  
His last, he reflected soberly.  


*

  
  
Ron looked down at Hermione as she lay upon the bed, his hands absently smoothing out the wrinkles from her robes. He reached up to brush her hair from her face. Leaning in, he kissed her cheek as a tear ran down his face and fell onto hers unnoticed.  
  
"Goodbye, luv," he said in a choked whisper. "Name your firstborn after me, eh? Unless it's a girl, of course." He chuckled, wiping his eyes. "Just...be happy."  
  
Caressing her face a last time, Ron plucked a long, brown hair from her head, disdaining the hairbrush in his bag with a dash of romanticism. He rolled the strand of hair between his fingers with a dreamy expression on his face before turning toward the cauldron. Taking up his ladel, he dipped it into the unsavory-looking potion and filled his goblet. Into this he slowly immersed the long hair, stirring the liquid with his wand until this last, and most crucial, ingredient was dissolved.  
  
Ron lifted the goblet high in a grandiose gesture. With a last look at Hermione, he straightened his shoulders and raised the cup to his lips.  



	7. Written In Ink, Sealed In Blood

**Author's Note:** To sbys, kateydidnt and Occamy -- bet you didn't know Ron was so heroic, did you? Neither does anyone at Hogwarts. But, beginning with this chapter, they're about to learn...  
  


***

  
  
"Where did you find this note, Mr....Ennis, is it?" asked Dumbledore, his silver brows knit.  
  
"Attached to the Whomping Willow, sir," said the young boy, awe-struck at having been called into the Headmaster's office and fearful that he had done something wrong in bringing the note; he'd already lost more than enough points for his house this year.  
  
Dumbledore was re-reading the note when Professor McGonagall entered in response to the magical summons sent her by the Headmaster. Without lifting his eyes from the parchment, Dumbledore asked:  
  
"Minerva, is Harry still in hospital?"  
  
"Yes," McGonagall replied, a growing curiosity vying with the natural severity of her features. "Madam Pomfrey is thinking of releasing him shortly."  
  
With a curt nod at McGonagall, Dumbledore turned to the boy, a benevolent smile spreading across his face.  
  
"When did you first notice this note upon the tree?"  
  
"Three days ago, sir."  
  
"You told no one?"  
  
"I thought it was a prank, sir," the boy said in a quavering falsetto. "You see, sir, I don't have many mates in my own house -- I've lost so many points, they're mad at me. So I've made some mates from the other houses, only...only they think it's funny to trick me into breaking the rules so I'll lose points or get detention. So when I saw the note on the tree, I thought it was the Slytherins having me on again. I know students aren't allowed near the Whomping Willow. I thought they wanted me to get caught and punished, or maybe even hurt by the branches. It -- it seemed like something they'd do."  
  
"Yet, in the end," Dumbledore observed, stroking his beard sagely, "you fetched it all the same."  
  
"Well, sir, after a while I saw that no one seemed to be aware of it but me. So I thought maybe it wasn't a prank after all. And if it was a real note from somebody, maybe...maybe it was important. Maybe somebody was hurt, or needed help. So I slipped under the branches -- "  
  
At this, Dumbledore's brows rose and the corners of his moustaches curled into a broad grin.  
  
The boy's face colored even as a trace of a smile crossed his still quivering lips.  
  
"I'm rather quick, sir," he said with evident pride. "I'm going to try out for Seeker next year...well, um...so I got to the tree, and when I read the note, I didn't understand what it said, not exactly. But it seemed like something you would want to see -- I mean, you know everything, don't you, sir? So if anyone would know what it was about, it would be you, sir."  
  
A pink glow suffused Dumbledore's cheeks as he stroked his long white beard repeatedly, all the while pretending not to see Professor McGonagall eyeing him with something less than approval.  
  
"Young Mr. Ennis," he said at last, his arms folded while a long, bony finger tapped lightly at the corner of his mouth. "I see in you a healthy respect for rules. Yet, for that, willing to risk punishment to help another. A sense of honor, I perceive, and not without daring, nor courage.  
  
"Are you by any chance in Gryffindor house, Mr.Ennis?"  
  
"Y-yes, sir," the boy stammered, thinking the Headmaster was surely psychic (which only added to his greatness, he thought with ever-increasing awe).  
  
Dumbledore's face broke into a virtual radiance.  
  
"Ten points for Gryffindor, I think -- no, twenty!"  
  
Ennis looked as if he might faint.  
  
"You may go, young man," Dumbledore said with a polite bow of his head. "And thank you!"  
  
The boy hurried out gleefully as McGonagall approached the Headmaster, whose countenance grew dire once more.  
  
"What does the note say, Albus?"  
  
"Something quite impossible," Dumbledore replied, rising heavily from his high-backed chair. "Yet I dare not dismiss it out of hand. What do you think?"  
  
He nodded toward the parchment on his desk. Professor McGonagall took it up and read it with narrowed eyes that rapidly grew to the size of saucers. Her face went white.  
  
"This cannot mean what it says, Albus! It would be -- unthinkable!"  
  
"Indeed," Dumbledore said gravely. "Come. We must see Harry." 


	8. The Mummy's Secret

**Author's Note:** Returning reviewer Occamy is joined this time by newcomers ManicGrace, Phoenix Flight, Shiro Yuri and crazyfriendsfan. Does everyone know what is on the note? If not, you're about to find out.  
  
  


***

  
  
Harry could scarcely breathe. It was as if a giant hand were squeezing his chest. His hands shook as they held the parchment at which he blinked in disbelief.  
  
He looked up at Dumbledore.  
  
"He'd never!" The words came in a wheezing croak, very nearly a sob.  
  
"Would he not?" Dumbledore responded gently.  
  
Harry's whole body now followed the example of his hands and began to tremble.  
  
"It would seem, Harry," Dumbledore observed, "that you are truly blessed with wondrous friends. Perhaps compensation for all the loss you have suffered for so long."  
  
Dumbledore's use of the word "compensation" stung Harry to his soul. How glibly had he himself used that word only hours ago. Was this to be on _his_ head, then?  
  
He numbly read the note for a third time:  
  
_Harry:  
You will find Hermione in the Shrieking Shack, alive and well. I  
heard Dumbledore tell you that the cosmic balance required a death. But  
nobody said whose. So I'm stepping in for Hermione. Be good to her, or  
I'll come back and haunt you!  
Goodbye.  
  
Your best mate,  
  
Ron_  
  
  
"B-but _how_?" Harry stammered. "He couldn't..."  
  
"We have much to learn before this matter is put to rest," Dumbledore averred.  
  
"Poppy?"  
  
Madam Pomfrey rose from her desk chair and approached the Headmaster.  
  
"Is Harry fit for release?" Dumbledore asked.  
  
"As fit as may be expected under the circumstances," came the sad reply.  
  
"Harry," Dumbledore said, turning from Madam Pomfrey, "please be dressed and ready to leave in fifteen minutes."  
  
"Are we..." Harry said from a dry throat. "...are we going to the -- the Shrieking Shack?"  
  
"Yes, Harry. But first, I have a very important errand. I shall return promptly."  
  
Dumbledore strode through the doorway and saw Professor McGonagall approaching with a swift stride.  
  
"I have spoken to all the Gryffindors," McGonagall announced, pausing to draw a breath. "None has seen Ron since last night. His bed has not been slept in. Ginny is beside herself with worry. His school bag is not to be found. And a search of Harry's trunk reveals that his Invisibility Cloak is gone."  
  
"Along with the Marauders' Map as well, I'll wager," Dumbledore murmured into his beard.  
  
"Albus?" McGonagall said severely. "Do speak up! I detest it when you mumble to yourself!"  
  
"My apologies, Minerva," Dumbledore said, suppressing a smile. McGonagall was cognizant of the Cloak, of course, but she knew nothing of the Marauders' map, and Dumbledore thought it best that she remain ignorant.  
  
"Well, then," McGonagall said in a more restrained voice, "you know what we must do..."  
  
All vestige of humor faded as Dumbledore nodded solemnly.  
  
"If what were done were best done," Dumbledore quoted, "t'were best done quickly."  
  
The pair strode purposefully through the corridors until they came to a door that was devoid of knob or handle. It opened at a wave of the Headmaster's wand, and they entered with heads slightly bowed.  
  
The room was hung with black tapestries that seemed to devour the dim light like a sea of parched tongues lapping at a misty rain. That feeble illumination came from a circle of black candles which hovered above a dais of polished jet. Upon this reposed a casket of lacquered ebony, its lid made fast. This opened soundlessly at a gesture from Dumbledore, and they peered over the rim with eyes clouded sorrowfully.  
  
A figure lay within, wrapped from head to foot in white mummy-wrappings. Dumbledore passed his wand over the still form. The cloth strips unwound themselves, withdrawing into the wand from which they had come, revealing a face frozen forever in the serenity of death.  
  
Professor McGonagall's hand flew to her mouth as she stifled a cry.  
  
"Oh -- Albus!"  
  
Dumbledore closed his eyes and re-wrapped the figure reverently.  
  
"Minerva," Dumbledore said in a tired voice, "would you please go to the hospital wing and see if Harry is ready? I must go and fetch something from my office, then I shall join you all directly."  
  
McGonagall, still distraught, nodded absently.  
  
"How, Albus? How can this possibly be?"  
  
"As yet, I know not," Dumbledore said as he locked the handleless door once more. "But we shall learn the truth very soon, I fear. For good or ill, the truth _will_ be revealed." 


	9. O Brother, Where Art Thou?

**Author's Note:** To reviewers Adam Johnson, crazyfriendsfan, Phoenix Flight, sbys and Occamy (and anyone else who might drop in): The Shrieking Shack awaits. Let's be off, shall we?  
  
  


***

  
  
The torpidly milling students languishing near the great entrance to the castle took scant note of the small party which exited in a tight knot, robes fluttering in the Spring breeze. They neither noted the direction in which this elite company moved, nor would have cared overmuch had they been disposed to look. The whole of Hogwarts seemed reduced to the state of zombies, excepting only the four who moved rapidly in the direction of the Whomping Willow.  
  
"I must caution you again, Poppy," Dumbledore said with an eye cast over his left shoulder. "This expedition will most certainly prove to be...undignified, at the least."  
  
"Posh!" Madam Pomfrey said haughtily, her robes billowing about her ankles. "If a student needs me, I shall go where I must!  
  
"Besides," she added with a withering eye, "if _you_ can do it, then I certainly can!"  
  
The quartet reached the perimeter of the Willow without delay. Acting of his own accord, Harry promptly detached himself from his three companions and dashed toward the gnarled trunk. Employing his Quidditch-trained reflexes, Harry expertly dodged the thrashing branches and fell upon the knot at the base of the tree. Instantly the branches froze. An unnatural stillness fell, the only motion being the light capering of the leaves in the wind.  
  
Harry entered the tunnel first, thereafter assisting Dumbledore in lowering Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey. Dumbledore himself slid down with the nimbleness of a schoolboy, pausing only to dust off his robes before lighting his wand and taking the lead.  
  
Walking directly behind Dumbledore, Harry surveyed the surface under his feet, playing the light of his wand back and forth. He had not set foot in this tunnel since the night he, Ron and Hermione had helped his godfather, Sirius Black, escape from the dementors (and, incidentally, from Cornelius Fudge). Yet this was surely not the dust of three years upon which they now walked. Fresh footprints streaked the dust, and not those of a single passage. What did it all mean?  
  
At the entrance to the Shrieking Shack, Harry boldly took the lead, knowing with a certainty where their path led. His nerves humming like piano wire, Harry raced up the stairs to the second floor, flew across the landing and flung open the door --  
  
When Dumbledore stepped into the room moments later, he found Harry sprawled across a large four-poster bed from which tattered hangings dripped like Spanish moss. A figure lay upon the bed, and Harry was sobbing onto its robes.  
  
Madam Pomfrey rushed in now. She pulled Harry away without pretense of delicacy and began a cursory examination.  
  
After what seemed an eternity to Harry:  
  
"She's alive, Albus!"  
  
As Dumbledore and McGonagall moved to either side of Madam Pomfrey, Harry felt his legs turn to water. He collapsed with his back to the wall, his hands covering his face as great sobs tore through him. But were they tears of joy -- or of misery? For if Hermione were alive -- did that mean -- ?  
  
"This girl has been stunned," Madam Pomfrey said at last. "I -- I see no other signs of trauma..."  
  
Dumbledore drew his wand.  
  
"_Ennervate_!"  
  
Looking up through his tears, Harry saw Hermione's fingers quiver weakly. He leaped up as if shot from a cannon and fell upon her, sobbing aloud as he rained kisses upon her, painting her face with his tears.  
  
"H-Harry?" Hermione said weakly, trying to focus her thoughts. "Wh-where am I? What -- Ron! Where's Ron? He..."  
  
Harry tried to speak, but the only sound he could manage was a gasping sob. He pressed his cheek against Hermione's and wept into her disheveled hair where it lay spread out on the lace-trimmed pillowcase.  
  
As Dumbledore lay a comforting hand upon Harry, Professor McGonagall stepped back and attempted to collect herself. She turned away, dabbing at her eyes with a hastily-conjured handkerchief --  
  
"ALBUS!" she screamed.  
  
All heads turned as one. Even Harry lifted his head, and Hermione's eyes turned in the direction of McGonagall's cry. The Deputy Headmistress was pointing to an overstuffed chair in which a limp figure sat, its features obscured by deep shadow.  
  
Dumbledore walked over and scrutinized the figure for a long moment. He lifted his wand.  
  
"_Ennervate_!"  
  
Ron Weasley opened his eyes, blinked. Then, seeing where he was, he fell into tears.  
  
"No," he sobbed, unable to speak above a whisper. "No, please, no...Hermione..."  
  
"RON?"  
  
Two voices spoke as one. One, the stronger, Ron clearly identified as Harry's. But the other -- could it be -- ?"  
  
"Her-Hermione?" Ron gasped. "How...how..."  
  
"How, indeed?" Dumbledore whispered as Madam Pomfrey swarmed over a near-hysterical Ron. "How, indeed!"  
  
  


***

  
**Author's Note:** Don't miss the next (and final) chapter, in which all questions are answered. See you then. 


	10. Priori Incantato

**Author's Note:** Wow! I'm up to eight reviews on that last chapter. While I'm on a roll, maybe I should add an extra chapter or two -- oh, wait -- I can't do that. The ending is already written, and it's too late to change it. Ah, well. Can't fault a bloke for dreaming.  
  
But I do want to thank my Chapter 9 reviewers: kateydidnt, LadyLilandra, ShelaghC, Marie, sbys, crazyfriendsfan, Occamy and Phoenix Flight. If everyone is still in the dark, then I've done my job. And now -- let there be light!  
  
  


***

  
  
Ron and Hermione lay in adjoining beds in the hospital wing. Harry sat between them, holding Hermione's hand as they both watched Madam Pomfrey conclude her examination of Ron.  
  
"They're both fine, Headmaster," she said confidently. "Some hot food and a night in hospital will find them fit and healthy."  
  
Dumbledore nodded his appreciation, whereupon Madam Pomfrey departed, knowing instinctively when the Headmaster was about to hold council. She passed Professor McGonagall, who promptly locked the door and Charmed it with the same spell Dumbledore had used to secure the wing three years ago during the notorious "Sirius Black Incident."  
  
All eyes now turned to Dumbledore.  
  
"The last four days," he began, "have seen mystery pile upon mystery. We could be here all night exchanging verbal accounts and still not learn all. However, there is a more expeditious means at our disposal."  
  
Dumbledore reached into his robes and slowly withdrew a wand.  
  
"Albus," Professor McGonagall said immediately, "that's not your wand!"  
  
"Astute, as always, Minerva," Dumbledore smiled. "It is, in fact, Igor Karkaroff's."  
  
Everyone stared at the wand as Dumbledore raised it as if for exhibition. There was a look of disdain from the Headmaster as he scrutinized it over the rims of his half-moon spectacles.  
  
"This wand has been kept in my office since Saturday last. It was to be used in evidence against Karkaroff. Used to convict him of murder -- to be precise, your murder, Miss Granger."  
  
Hermione stared in disbelief. Dumbledore smiled.  
  
"It was not needed," he resumed, "due to so many witches and wizards coming forward to testify. Once sentence is passed, I have been charged with snapping it in two and incinerating the remains.  
  
"However, in the meantime it can render us an inestimable service. No doubt the first good it will have done in many a year.  
  
"You are all familiar, I trust, with 'Priori Incantatum'?"  
  
Dumbledore did not wait for a reply.  
  
"This wand committed three murders in Hogsmeade. Two of the victims are certain. As to the third..."  
  
Dumbledore exchanged a brief, knowing look with Professor McGonagall as he shifted Karkaroff's wand to his left hand and drew his own wand with his right. He placed the wands together, tip to tip.  
  
"Priori Incantato!"  
  
A swirling silver mist emerged from the tip of Karkaroff's wand. It slowly coalesced into a human form. A bright, cheerful face beamed down at Harry.  
  
"Hi, Harry! So it came out alright, then? Ah, yes! Hello, Hermione! And Ron! Good to see you!"  
  
In a voice steady as the hand holding the wand, Dumbledore spoke a single word:  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Wellll," the apparition said hesitantly, "I couldn't let Ron die, could I? I mean, he's Harry's best friend, isn't he? If Harry got Hermione back but lost Ron, where would be the gain? So I had to do it, didn't I?"  
  
A new voice interposed weakly. It was Ron's.  
  
"How -- how did you know?"  
  
"Well, I saw you, didn't I?" came the cheerful reply. "I was on the edge of the grounds, just sort of walking and thinking, and I saw the sparks from your wand! So I got curious, and I hid behind a tree and I looked. And I saw you throw an Invisibility Cloak over someone. I'd heard about Invisibility Cloaks, but I never saw one before! Wow, was that ever neat!  
  
"But I couldn't figure out why you were dragging someone in the first place. And you were moving _away_ from the castle. If someone was hurt, wouldn't you be going _toward_ the castle, to go to Madam Pomfrey? And I could only come up with one answer. Maybe _you_ had hurt whoever you were dragging! Maybe…maybe you'd even _killed_ them. I didn't know what to do, so I just followed you and kept thinking of what to do next. Should I see where you were going, or should I go for a teacher?  
  
"But when I saw you make the Whomping Willow stop moving -- well, I sure wasn't going to turn back then, was I? I never knew _anyone_ could do that! And when you went into the tunnel, I followed you -- I never knew there was a tunnel under the Whomping Willow -- of course, there are a lot of things I never knew, I suppose -- really not much of a wizard, come to that --  
  
"Well, then, I followed you into the Shrieking Shack -- I didn't know what it was then, of course -- and when I saw who it was you'd been carrying, I couldn't believe it! Hermione was supposed to be in Hogsmeade with Harry, wasn't she? So what were you doing dragging her to the Shrieking Shack? And when she didn't move, I thought she _must_ be dead. And I thought, maybe you'd joined the Dark Side and you were going to perform some ritual, maybe bring Hermione back as a zombie or a vampire or something…make her a servant of You-Know-Who – like I thought _you_ were! And I couldn't let something like that happen to someone as nice as Hermione, could I? I knew I had to do something! But what could I do?  
  
"And then I remembered what they told us in Defense Against the Dark Arts, about how the Aurors were allowed to use the Unforgivable Curses against Death Eaters and other servants of You-Know-Who. Well, I wasn't an Auror, but it sure looked like you were maybe an apprentice Death Eater or something. So that made it okay, didn't it? I mean, I'd never use the Killing Curse, but I figured if I used the Imperius Curse, I could learn the truth and maybe save Hermione. So I did."  
  
Ron's jaw was slack, his eyes wide and pregnant with agony.  
  
"Didn't I...try to fight it?"  
  
Ron was on the verge of tears. He knew Harry had resisted the Imperius Curse when "Mad-Eye Moody" used it on him as a demonstration in class. Could not he, Ron, have resisted as well?  
  
"Well, yes, you did, actually," came the solicitous reply. "But you looked really tired -- kind of worried, you know? I think maybe that's why it worked on you."  
  
"I told you...everything?" Ron said sickly.  
  
"Oh, yes! You told me you had a Time-Turner, and you'd brewed up a batch of Polyjuice Potion -- wow, am I ever glad I turned out to be a wizard, even if I wasn't a very good one. I'd never have learned about cool stuff like that in Muggle school -- "  
  
"But why?" Ron demanded, his voice cracking pitifully. "Why you?"  
  
"I told you! I couldn't let you do it! There are too many people who'd miss you. Especially Harry. And, well, once I saw how late it was getting, I knew there wasn't time to think of something else. If someone was going to take Hermione's place, it had to be me, didn't it? I mean, there was no one else there, was there?  
  
"So I drank the Polyjuice Potion -- yuck! -- and I turned into Hermione -- wow, was that ever weird! And I ran as fast as I could to Hogsmeade, and I saw Karkaroff pointing his wand at Harry, so I knocked him down like an American Football player, and..."  
  
There was a wan sigh as the bright grin dimmed a trifle.  
  
"It didn't hurt at all. I'm glad I did it. It really was for the best, you know.  
  
"But -- I wish I'd known about the note on the tree. I didn't want anyone to worry, see? I even Obliviated your memory, so you wouldn't know I'd been there. But that was real clever, using a Concealment Charm. No wonder you're Harry's friend. A great wizard like Harry deserves the best mates, like you and Hermione. Not an ankle-biter like me..."  
  
A tearful Harry was now shaking his fist in Ron's face.  
  
"You great, stupid bollock! What in Merlin's name were you thinking? If I didn't -- if you weren't -- "  
  
"It's..." Ron said, his eyes looking downwards, "...it's all I could...come up with..."  
  
"But he didn't have to, did he, Harry?" the ghostly voice squeaked. "I did it! You're all together now! And was the price really so high? I mean, who's going to miss me? Well, maybe Dennis, I guess. But I was never much of a big brother...just like I was never much of a wizard. Sometimes I think I never really belonged at Hogwarts. Maybe I should've become a milkman, like my dad.  
  
"But now Dennis can be proud of me! I did something good! I made it so my friend Harry didn't have to lose either of his two best friends!  
  
"Oh -- Harry -- ?"  
  
The voice was growing ever fainter, the image increasingly transparent.  
  
"Yes?" Harry whispered chokingly.  
  
"See that Dennis gets my camera, will you? And tell him I got some really good shots on this last roll."  
  
Harry nodded, the lump in his throat impeding speech.  
  
"Thanks! Bye, Harry! Bye, everyone! Be happy!"  
  
And as the company in the infirmary watched tearfully, the joyfully radiant face of Colin Creevey vanished forever in a wisp of silver mist.  
  
  


***

  
  
**Author's Note:** Among the most avid rumors surrounding the last three HP novels are those speculating on who will die. While no one is naming names, one source reported that "Harry's biggest fan" would be taking the Dirt Nap. "Biggest fan?" I ask you, is there a bigger "fanboy" in the books than Colin Creevey? Alas, I fear the annoying little shutterbug's warranty is dangerously close to expiring. More than likely he will die at the hands of some Death Eater, a victim of "Mudblood bashing." Like Cedric before him, Colin may well suffer the further indignity of dying a completely pointless death. I think he deserves better. If he is to die, why not let him die a hero?  
  
Rest in peace, Colin. We'll miss you.  
  
Thanks to all who read and reviewed. I shall return.  



End file.
